


i know it’ll have to drown me, before i can breathe easy

by tokyonightskies



Series: how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth [1]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Ex-Nightmare Courtier, Feelings Realization, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Missions, One-Sided Attraction, Order of Whispers, Pirates, Slow Burn, The Vigil, durmand priory, excavations, the pact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 21:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20442572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: for #tyriaslibraryevent.Iron-cast pots are positioned over poked-apart embers with two cooks tending them. Steam wafts up towards the ceiling of the tent. One of the cooks is a young sylvari whom Afritan occasionally talked to after lectures. Her eyes always smiled so kindly on him. She looks up at their heavy footfalls.The ladle falls from her hand, clattering against the pot. Those kind eyes of hers bulging like a startled cat's.Afritan furrows his brow and follows the direction of her gaze.She’s looking at Moldark.And Moldark stares straight ahead, statuesque, purposely ignoring the shocked expression on her face, the way she draws into herself, small and unthreatening like a mouse. But the breath he draws is deep, uncomfortable. It’s suddenly too tense inside, too cramped. The young sylvari hastily averts her gaze and grabbles to scoop the ladle out of the stew without burning her fingertips..or on a joined expedition, something unforeseen happens.





	i know it’ll have to drown me, before i can breathe easy

**Author's Note:**

> for #tyriaslibraryevent.
> 
> Week 5 ( August 29 - September 4 ) — AU / Free
> 
> so, uh, this is long... my bad. incidentally also the first fic for this event that i finished way before the deadline. mainly because i started it back in june.
> 
> also i'm not done with this au yet, so expect me to put the slow in slow burn some more.

Caught in the shadow of the mountain ridge the small specialist team crosses the bridge towards Refugee's Peak, the silhouette of the Priory looming over their backs like a wolfs howling maw. 

Afritan shudders through an exhale, the puff of breath stuttering in the crisp afternoon air. Adjusting the sling of his backpack, he slows down to fall into step with the Vigil crusader he’s been side-eying since they’ve been briefed. Afritan's got a gut feeling the crusader must be the former Nightmare courtier he saw at the Grove a while back, the one Tegwen warned him about with a harried voice and a stern expression on her face; like the looks she gives Carys after she's jumped headfirst into the fray. 

Sometimes Afritan closes his eyes and sees the courtier's silhouette still, a fever dream, like something took root inside his chest ever since. 

His stomach turns oily, and he swallows a wad of spit down when the crusader brings that intense gaze onto him. His sleek breastplate gleams in the firelight of the braziers flanking them left and right.

" _ Uhm _ h-hi there," Afritan greets softly, voice barely reaching over the icy wind bouldering through the valley. He keeps his arms tight-pressed to his sides. Trying to refrain from stuttering too badly he continues,"I'm Afritan from the Durmand Priory--" a slight wince, as if the crusader  _ didn't know that already you idiot  _ “--it's nice to meet you…" 

The crusader tips his head back; the ashen-tinged leaf around his throat peeks out from the thick leather collar of his armor. His brows are slightly raised. Afritan rubs the back of his neck self-effacingly at the silence. 

As they step onto the winding hiking trail under the snow-capped mountain peaks, Afritan makes another attempt at conversation: "What's your name… You d-don't have to tell me of course, I was just wondering since we'll be working together on this mission and…" He trails off, looking away when a heavy patch of snow abruptly falls off a pine's thin-needled foliage. 

"I'm Moldark," the crusader says curtly in a voice much smoother than his imposing figure would suggest. His expression remains stone-faced.

Two longhorn sheep look up from their grazing spot at the side of the road when they pass by. The team's pretty ragtag in composition: a Whispers agent, ten Priory members including himself, two Vigil crusaders and a Vigil marksman. Afritan glances at Moldark from the corner of his eye with the hint of a smile playing on his lips. His profile contrasts starkly with their white surroundings. 

" _ So _ ," Afritan begins again, idly touching the hilt of his sword with skittish fingers. Hoping he won't stumble over consonants when he asks, "What do you  _ uhm _ make of the mission?"

Moldark doesn't shrug, doesn't hum. "It's straightforward enough. Us Vigil are only hired muscle to ensure the Priory members' safety." His gaze flicks between the road ahead and Afritan for the briefest of moments before settling back on the jagged horizon. "You look like you could handle yourself in a fight however.'

"I'm m-more of a defensive fighter," Afritan replies, ducking his head away to stave off an involuntary smile; his chest grown tight at the comment. He taps the strap of his backpack, stuffed chock-full with scrolls and maps. "B-besides I'm assigned to the p-position of navigator f-for the underwater exploration."

The crusader doesn't respond outright, only gives Afritan a quick once-over and a sharp nod.

It's easy to tell they're nearing Afgar's Steading by the cherry trees appearing alongside the hiking trail. The silence between them gets scuffed by the sound of heavy footfalls and hooves on hard gravel and the chatter of the pack of Priory explorers in front of them. After they round the bend at the longhouse, the hiking trail straightens, and the frozen ground thaws out. His eyes slide over to the former Nightmare courtier.

Up until he first saw Moldark in the Grove, Afritan was led to believe there was no cure for Nightmare.

Afritan worries the soft bark of his lower lip; his curiosity growing  _ teeth _ . The questions stack up the back of his tongue. 

Aloud he asks, "Why exactly d-did you join the Vigil?" 

Moldark turns to regard him. It's hard to tell if Afritan's question caught him off guard or not. He mulls over his words, placing a hand on the war axe hanging off his belt. The wedges that run next to his eyes and retreat into his forehead narrow to slits. Afritan wonders what color of glow would peek through in the dark.

"Because the Vigil is frontline support and offense. I can't imagine myself somewhere else," Moldark says eventually. 

Moldark's mouth stretches into a thin line and his fingers briefly clench around the curved handle of the axe. He looks like he's on the cusp of saying something more but _ what exactly _ Afritan doesn't know. 

Afritan puts a thorny tendril behind his ear and looks on ahead. They're going downhill now. He has a clear view of Rocklair with its makeshift sentry towers and bonfires; and of Cascade Bridge where a small squadron of Lionguard is stationed to ward off pirates. The firs and cherry trees are free of snow further down the mountains slope. 

"And why did you join the Priory, Afritan?" Moldark asks, the shadow of a smirk touching his lips as Afritan snaps his head around in surprise. "For knowledge or adventure or both?" 

" _ O-oh _ , well,  _ uhm _ . I always wanted to explore the world outside the Grove. I've spent hours looking at maps and self-studying c-cartography. The adventuring is an added bonus, I s-suppose _ .  _ My mentor's in the Priory too so it was a logical choice." His voice shakes, stumbling over certain sounds. Afritan sheepishly rubs the back of his neck again, heat pricking through at the nape.

Conversations aren't Afritan's forte. His stuttering usually scotches any attempts to reach out to kind-looking strangers, and this hesitation in turn gets mistaken for taciturnity. Moldark doesn't point it out. In fact there's none of the cruelty in his demeanor that you might expect from a Nightmare courtier. 

The weak sunlight catches a rich amber in his eyes, and Afritan blinks owlishly at the sight, something soft welling up his throat. He coughs in his fist and smiles apologetically. 

Moldark tilts his head a little,  _ catlike _ . Those wedges next to his eyes and into his forehead run thin again, but that shadow of a smile keeps playing along the corner of his mouth. He lazily pats the flat edge of his battleaxe, remarking, “This must suit you best then. Exploration,  _ and _ adventure.”

“I w-would believe so,” Afritan agrees bashfully, averting his gaze to the ground for a split-second. He bites the inside of his cheek before asking, “B-but what about you? Playing bodyguard isn’t really  _ uhm _ , frontline work…” 

Afritan doesn’t know whether the Vigil operates on the same basis as the Durmand Priory. He got the option to volunteer for the mission and was then assigned a position within the squad later on. Maybe Moldark simply lucked out. 

This fledgling Pact that their orders pledged themselves to stands on foal legs, but squads already got formed and dispatched to Timberline Falls; to Mount Maelstrom; going as far as the Straits of Devastation, spearheading into Orr. What they’re set out to do seems boring in comparison. Afritan bites the inside of his cheek, holding onto the strap of his backpack and staring at the ground absentmindedly.

"We're protecting you from pirates and scavengers. I'm certain there will be  _ some _ action at least," Moldark comments, and while his expression remains stoic, the confidence shines through in the cadence of his voice. Afritan wants to soak it all up. 

More questions come bobbing into his head, but it's too early to put them in words. Afritan nods in turn, and they fall into a companionable silence.

.

They pass through Rocklair, pausing only shortly to confer with magister Ghorgon about the general progress of the Priory's expeditions in the area. Aside from pirates, there's the hostile wildlife and the dredge to contend with. Afritan has only fought the latter twice before, both times in the harsh cold of Dredgehaunt Cliffs. 

His gaze slides over to Moldark but he remains undaunted. As if nothing could ever faze him.  _ The type to break you before you could dent them,  _ Afritan muses silently; a tingle running down his spine. 

Lionguard soldiers salute the members of the team at the head of Cascade Bridge, their plate armors reflect golden in the sunlight. Afritan squints a little. He looks past them, at the calm waters of the lake and the rear end of the pirate ship sticking out from Jetsam Isle, casting its shadow over the depths. On the other side of the bridge the rocky terrain makes way for rolling hillsides and stretches of grassland. Further up north the snow-packed grounds of False River Valley are wedged between steep unclimbable mountains. Rock and more rock. 

Their destination is the southernmost point of the lake’s jagged shoreline however, where the underwater complex of dwarven ruins proves most accessible. Afritan points out the bridge connecting Demon’s Maw and Greybeard’s Landing to Moldark.

“It’s the only way to our b-base of operations from the other side of the lake and makes for an  _ ex-- _ , uhm, an  _ excel _ \--” his tongue trips over the word, and Afritan hastily scrapes his throat, trying to mask the slip up. “A-anyway it’s an easy position to defend.” 

Moldark crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head to the side, surveying his surroundings with the same scrutiny a cat would regard its prey. His eyes narrow dangerously. 

“I’m wondering about the range of those turrets. They could become a problem,” he says then, not looking away from the pirate camp; the outlines of those blown-apart and stranded ships blurred by the distance. 

Afritan follows his gaze and mutters softly, "A-ah, I see what y-you mean." 

A hollow thud rings through the open space, and Afritan startles a little, craning his neck to look. Their teammates have started setting up camp. 

He makes a curt sound at the back of his throat and continues with some difficulty, "I-if the barrels of their turrets haven't been replaced o-or,  _ uhm _ , augmented these past few years, I'd  _ uh _ wager the range to be two hundred yards at most…" Here, he pauses for a moment, pursing his lips. "The eastern wing of the f-fortress may be  _ just _ within range."

Before Moldark manages a reply, the Vigil marksman, a sylvari too, rounds them both with a sharkish grin; and there's no other way to describe it: sharp and toothy, full of confidence. He's tall and slim, while the crusader's all bulk. The rock gazelle he keeps as a pet trots behind, its hooves quiet in the tall grass. 

"Warmaster wants to talk shop. Better wrap things up here," he says to Moldark.

Afritan wrings his hands when the marksman pushes down his sunglasses--revealing deep red eyes that could unsettle any opponent, and bears that grin down on him. The supple leather of his gauntlets squeaks softly from how hard he's rubbing them together. 

"You might wanna go check in with that scary Charr lady, 'cause she looks like she's gonna eat her own tail. I'm Tatule by the way. Vigil, but you know that."

His voice breaks around the first two syllables of his own name, and Afritan sighs dejectedly before trying again, "I'm Afritan, I'm the navigator on this e-expedition. It's  _ uh _ nice to meet you." 

Tatule tips two fingertips to his forehead in a quick salute. The scenery reflects distorted on his sunglasses, blurs of black. He gives one high-pitched whistle to draw his pet's attention and walks off. 

Afritan glances back at Moldark, scrambling for  _ something _ to say, anything that isn't redundant or lame. 

"I suspect you will join us on our first dive to secure the perimeters," Moldark begins matter-of-factly. "Rest up in the meantime. I imagine the dwarven fortress to be very big, or what's left of it anyway." The sentence gets capped off with a handsome lopsided smile that makes Afritan's chest all  _ tangled  _ up tight. 

Moldark leaves Afritan to his thoughts and heads over to the Asuran warmaster. His figure's all angles and pins against the soft green. Afritan inhales sharply and looks off to where magister Mercutia Spectremaw and the other Priory members are setting up the tents and assembling their gear. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below seems to come from faraway. Another sigh and Afritan grabs onto the straps of his backpack, setting out to help his teammates.

Magister Spectremaw--terrifyingly big with sleek spotted fur and paws the size of shovels-- chews him out the second he checks in.  _ Stop dawdling thornbush and get to it. _

.

While Afritan's unrolling his sleeping bag on the uneven underground-- _ and he'll wake up with a crick in his back, he's sure of it _ \-- the Whispers agent saunters into the tent on light feet. Afritan only knows someone's behind him because another shadow falls over his hands. Intentional, no doubt. 

"Hello there," the agent greets pleasantly. "I was told by magister Spectremaw to visit you for all sorts of  _ topographical  _ matters." 

Afritan uneasily settles back on his haunches and angles his head to regard the Whispers agent: another sylvari, lanky with a runner's build, the brim of his mushroom casting a shadow to his chin. The metal embellishments on his black and red-dyed armor glimmer in the dim. 

" _ Uh _ , w-well, I suppose so…" Afritan mutters unsurely, slowly standing at full height. A barbed coil slips in front of his eyes, and he clicks his tongue, annoyed. 

The Whispers agent hums lightly, rocking on the tips of his toes in place. "I was thinking of undertaking a reconnaissance mission on my own to get a better understanding of the enemy. Oh, and if they stock stolen artifacts on base or not.  _ But _ to do so, I need a keen understanding of the area-- _ and _ I'm going too fast, aren't I?" He asks suddenly, blinking bright blue eyes. 

Nodding bashfully, Afritan replies, "J-just a little bit, yes."

"All I require are a few maps of the area and some of your expertise," the Whispers agent explains, a reassuring undertone to his voice. He folds his hands behind his back and rises on the tips of his toes briefly.

"I t-think I might be able to help," Afritan says while reaching for his backpack. 

Most of the maps he carries around are charts on the lake and layouts of the dwarven fortress in its prime, but he does have a couple on Lornar's Pass and Demon's Maw in particular. 

They settle down cross-legged on the ground with the maps spread out on Afritan's bedroll. Musty air wafts up from the parchment. Afritan learns the Whispers agent's name a good five minutes into their discussion about the terrain. _ Where are my manners? I'm Oprez, pleased to make your acquaintance. _ The introduction's treated as a formality however, in the face of preparations for his self-imposed mission. 

Oprez gracefully rises to his feet. His mushroom cap sheds a ring of shadow over Afritan's toes, neatly sliced through by the pale sunlight pooling inside through the gap of the tent flap. He nods to himself once or twice; pleased. 

"Thank you for your assistance in this matter. You were most helpful," Oprez says with a polite smile, then picks up his staff and hooks it to the back straps on his armor. There's no showing off, but the fluid movement alone implies skill. 

His bright blue eyes remain unblinking when someone suddenly pulls the flap of the tent aside. Afritan looks over his shoulder. Magister Spectremaw fills up the empty space with her hulking form; the sunlight chisels the silhouette of her broad shoulders and curving horns against the dark underground. Oprez nods at Afritan and walks on over, threading softly out of habit. 

"Did you get what you came for, agent?" Mercutia asks, shoving the flap open wider; pale sunlight comes flooding in like an oil spill. 

Oprez pauses at her side, and despite his own height he only reaches to her shoulders. He responds politely, "Yes, our navigator here was so very kind for lending me some of his time and patience."

"Then I wish you success on your mission," she says, sounding as if someone tried to shank her in the throat but failed by a couple of inches. What you call a _ guttural  _ voice.

"As I on yours. I'll try to have returned by nightfall, magister, but I can't make any promises, I'm sure you understand. Now if you would excuse me…" Oprez dips his head and slips past her, the coattails of his chest piece bellowing in motion. 

Mercutia remains standing at the tent opening and wrinkles her maw. She speaks up after a beat, "The Vigil needs you outside for first dive, thornbush."

His eyes grow wide, and he scrambles on all fours. Watching how Afritan gathers his charts and maps and manuscripts, neatly folding them and tucking them back into his backpack, Mercutia wags her tail from side to side. Low over the underground. Her muzzle curls into an amused grin when he almost trips over himself in excitement to get his aquabreather. 

"That's a proper attitude," she rumbles when he's fully equipped and claps him on the back with her paw,  _ hard _ . Afritan titters forwards from impact, smiling sheepishly. It's hard  _ not _ to feel giddy, for some reason.

.

They're waiting for him at the edge of the rocky shoreline. Moldark's overlooking the dark waters with arms crossed while Tatule's propped up against a boulder, one knee bent, restocking his quiver with harpoons for the dive. His rock gazelle is nowhere to be found. The Asura warmaster's cleaning the barrel of her harpoon gun with a rag. Afritan's throat closes up when Moldark throws a glance over his shoulder at him. He swallows curtly, but it doesn't help much. 

Afritan spots three skale corpses in the tall grass; rich red blood drying on their skewered hides. The air gets cooler the closer he gets to the lake. 

Even if Moldark's the first one to acknowledge him, it's Tatule who speaks up, saying, "You're here. Great. Let's get this show on the road then." He looks towards his warmaster and continues, "Whenever you are, ma'am."

She stands upright, at attention, and sheathes the weapon at her back. The wind runs through her shock of red hair, pushing her long droopy ears past her massive shoulderguards. 

"Very well. I am warmaster Narru and I will be your commanding officer during this short expedition. Our objective is securing the perimeters of the dwarven complex. Magister Spectremaw already gave me a report on your skills, explorer. Be warned that I will burk no disobedience in my squad and I will tolerate no liable actions during the mission. Have I made myself clear?" She lifts her head, peering up at Afritan with electric green eyes.

Afritan's gaze flicks from Moldark to Narru, and he nods like a child chastised; eager, eyes downcast.

Warmaster Narru attaches the aquabreather to her mouth and goes into the water, beckoning the rest of them to follow. Tatule gets up, dusts off his leather leggings with a few broad swats. 

He claps a hand to Afritan's shoulder and leans in close with a wide grin. "Don't worry about the shark, okay?" 

"S-shark? B-but sharks aren't native to these waters," Afritan points out, staring confusedly at Tatule. 

Moldark saunters past and searches for Afritan's gaze from over his shoulder, then shakes his head a little. There's a glimmer of a smile playing along the curve of his lips; something rare. Afritan furrows his brow. 

"One of his pets," Moldark explains matter-of-factly. 

Afritan murmurs an inaudible  _ oh _ in response. 

"At least your reaction was cuter than Moldark's when I first sprung Jaws on him," Tatule says, patting Afritan on the shoulder once or twice; his grin like a serrated blade across his face. 

The wind starts to pick up, rustling the tall grass that reaches past their calves. Patches of uneven ground that turn into rock cradling water. Moldark rolls his eyes and slides the aquabreather over his nose, adjusts the oxygen mask over his mouth, trails after his warmaster in purposeful strides. The steel of his spear shines a searing white in the afternoon sunlight. Tatule whistles loudly, a sharp shrill sound, and wades into the water, unhurriedly putting on his aquabreather as a shark’s fin rises above the waves further off. Afritan takes a deep breath and follows their example. 

Submerged his vision grows hazy, and the cold comes like an all-encompassing shock to his system. It takes a moment to get accustomed to the temperature, the weightlessness. To the sound of the overflow.

They dive deeper, pieces of flotsam and strands of algae floating past, until warmaster Narru abruptly stops and raises a fist. She gestures downwards with quick, jerky movements. They cautiously observe a pack of krait treasure hunters, jealously guarding their cache at the bottom of the lake. Warmaster Narru stretches her arm sideways, and everyone lines up abreast, weapons drawn. Afritan anticipates the signal to attack, holding onto his spear a little tighter, the rush of adrenalin soaking up his belly. 

Tatule’s shark circles overhead, filtering out the sunlight, its shadowy form moving over the underground. 

Warmaster Narru cocks her speargun, takes aim. She fires, and the harpoon rips through a krait hunter’s shoulder. Blood spurts from the wound in slow motion. Moldark seizes the opportunity, propels himself forwards with a powerful kick. The krait dart up to intercept him. Afritan doesn’t hesitate and summons a bright blinding mist.

Everything blurs together after: harpoons whizzing past their ears, more blood, the dull ache of a metal bar hard against his abdomen. Afritan sucks in a deep breath, blocks an incoming attack with the handle of his spear.  Tatule’s shark charges the hunter fighting him, tearing into the krait’s snake-like torso with rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth.  _ Earning her name twice over. _

Shreds of saggy skin float up _ . _ Afritan jabs his weapon through the krait's throat. Angled up, so the sharp spearhead sticks out the back of the krait's well-worn leather mask. Its eyes blown wide open in shock. The krait hunter goes limp between the shark’s tight-locked jaws. One vicious yank; and blood sluices from the krait's neck, gushing all around them. 

Afritan whips around, spots Moldark fighting off the leader of the pack. 

Wisps of green lake weed wave around them from the force of their blows, and Moldark's relentless, some kind of fierce you only see in a wildcat cornered, dishing out as hard as he gets. He's all power and skill, his glow seeping through the cracks in his bark-like skin like a rescue flare; a bright red. Afritan uses his magic on instinct when the veteran krait hunter tries to get a hit in, shoves down whatever wells up his throat with a curt  _ click _ of the jaw. 

Aegis blocks off the krait hunter's makeshift spear. Moldark's eyes shift over to Afritan for a split second, an acknowledgement. 

The magical shield breaks apart, and Moldark continues his offense with a frenzy of strikes. The krait's pushed to the defensive. Especially when a harpoon slices the side of its thick-corded neck open. Moldark plunges his spear straight into the krait's scaly belly. And twists. The krait hunter struggles, death throes, eyes bulging, tail wiggling; its stomach sucked in. 

Breath rushed through two slits of nose, a garble of bubbles speeding towards the surface. Then, nothing. 

In contrast, there's Moldark, jacked up on adrenalin, punctuated by the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and Afritan finds himself unable to look away.  _ The type to break you before you could dent them _ . His words come echoing back. Moldark's red glow seems to spread throughout the water. Much brighter than Afritan's own peach-colored one. Afritan draws his shoulders up, holding onto his spear tightly. Tatule's shark swims past him to her master. 

They regroup around warmaster Narru. The krait corpses remain suspended at the bottom, arms slack, heads bowed, surrounding the splendid chest they set out to defend, a prayer circle.

Afritan gets instructed to lead the way. 

.

It takes a few hours to mark and secure the perimeters of the excavation site. There's debris everywhere. The sprawl of ruin tapers off in chunks of rock, spread across the underground as far as the steady shadow of the beached pirate ship. Low visibility only complicates the task. 

When they return to shore, stupid-tired, the expedition members have already started dinner. 

They trod over to the modest camphouse the Priory explorers set up in their absence, dripping water the whole way there. People are gathered around the flap of the tent, eating and talking. The smell of stew hangs in the air. Warmaster Narru shoves a wooden bowl into Afritan's hands and heads off with Tatule in tow, eager to get her fill. Afritan stays behind for a moment, enjoying the dying warmth of the evening sun pinned low between the mountains. 

He’s not alone; Moldark doesn’t seem to be in a hurry either. 

They regard the lake, a blazing red under the orange sky, catching their breath, letting the water dry on their skin. Moldark’s the first to move away.

Iron-cast pots are positioned over poked-apart embers with two cooks tending them. Steam wafts up towards the ceiling of the tent. One of the cooks is a young sylvari whom Afritan occasionally talked to after lectures. Her eyes always smiled so kindly on him. She looks up at their heavy footfalls. 

The ladle falls from her hand, clattering against the pot. Those kind eyes of hers bulging like a startled cat's. 

Afritan furrows his brow and follows the direction of her gaze. 

She’s looking at Moldark. 

And Moldark stares straight ahead, statuesque, purposely ignoring the shocked expression on her face, the way she draws into herself, small and unthreatening like a mouse. But the breath he draws is deep, uncomfortable. It’s suddenly too tense inside,  _ too cramped _ . The young sylvari hastily averts her gaze and grabbles to scoop the ladle out of the stew without burning her fingertips. 

Afritan slowly reaches out to take Moldark’s wooden bowl. With a gentle smile he offers a way out. “W-would you like to eat with me? In my t-tent? I,  _ uhm _ , I’m n-not that fond of crowds. And,  _ ah _ , don’t you t-think it’s a b-bit crowded outside?”

“Yes, that’s…” Moldark pauses briefly, halfway turning towards the exit. His hawkish gaze lingers over Afritan’s face. “Thank you for the offer. I believe your tent was the one furthest away from shore, right?”

"R-right," Afritan affirms softly. "I'll be right t-there."

Moldark nods curtly and marches off in even strides. Not too fast, not too slow; restrained. Once he's disappeared behind the rough-hewn tent sail, the young sylvari shyly pokes her head up, a little frazzled, a little flustered still. A faint blue dots the pudgy skin on her brow, a bluegill blue. 

"I'm sorry," she says, voice sounding pale. "It's just that,  _ well _ , he looked so much like a,  _ like a nightmare courtier _ , and  _ oh thorns _ I just…" Her sentence trails off unfinished, an embarrassed look on her face.

Afritan smiles in understanding. "B-but he's not," he points out, omitting the  _ anymore _ . "He is p-part of our squad, and we should treat him without  _ preju…  _ prejud--" his admonishment splinters at the word, and he dips his chin, staring obstinately at the dark ground. 

It's  _ stupid _ how he can't string the right syllables together.  _ Stupid stupid stupid. _

"No, no, you're right," the young sylvari argues, clutching the ladle tight with both hands. "Come on, let me serve you some stew."

He couldn't have been inside the tent for longer than ten minutes, but the air's grown misty when he gets out, and he's sure heavy fog will come rolling over the lake bank by morning. Flecks of ember eddy in the wind. Afritan retreats from the crowd of expedition members at the camphouse, concentrating on not spilling stew everywhere while he's walking. He spots the Whispers agent and magister Spectremaw conspiring at the entrance of her tent. 

Without sparing them much thought, Afritan rounds his own tent and nudges the flap away with his elbow. 

Moldark waits in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest, standoffish. The light can't touch him there, and his glow runs through black bark like a fire kindled in dead wood. Something unfurls in Afritan's chest at the sight. The corners of Afritan's mouth twitch into a smile, and he raises a bowl; thin wisps of steam blurring from the movement. He nods to his sleeping roll.  _ Sit, sit.  _

They settle down side by side, knees bent and feet flat on the hard dirt underground. With the smell of good food wafting in his nostrils Afritan realizes how famished he is. 

Conversation's sparse, in between spoonfuls. They don't talk about what transpired a few moments ago in the camphouse, or about homesickness for the Grove and surrounding Caledon. Moldark lives in Hoelbrak anyway. It's something that came up when discussing the climate and peaked Afritan's interest. He could guess why Moldark moved away; he'd seen the reason just moments ago after all. 

The wooden bowls are emptied and discarded at their feet, and they share a waterskin. 

_ But why to Hoelbrak? _

Afritan glances at Moldark from the corner of his eyes, and his hands are two jittery things in his lap. The leather lining inside his gauntlets itches. Moldark  _ puzzles  _ him; it feels like every tidbit of information he learns and catalogues only prompts him to discover more. Afritan scrapes his throat, curiosity winning over. 

"I d-don't mean to pry, b-but w-why did you choose Hoelbrak? Isn't it cold year round?" 

Moldark shrugs and unclasps the leather straps of his Vigil gauntlets, revealing a jagged layer of bark over his skin, dark and grizzly like an old pine's. Afritan ignores the urge to take off his own gauntlets and touch the tips of his fingers to Moldark's wrist. How long has he lived in Hoelbrak for his body to adapt-- _ to change _ \-- like this?

"I like it there," Moldark answers matter-of-factly. He clenches his hand in a fist, unclenches, flexes his fingers. "The Norn have a way of living I can relate to and." His eyes search out Afritan's. "They don't judge."

The implication rings loud and clear _ : They don't know my past.  _ Afritan flusters a little and presses his palms together. 

A hush falls over them. Moldark calmly puts his gauntlet back on, buckles the straps one-handedly and tugs on the leather of the glove around the heel of his palm. Then, he stands up. Afritan watches him collect the wooden bowls. The words he wants to say melt away on the tip of his tongue:  _ I won't judge either, I just want to get to know you.  _

"Thank you for this evening. I'm sure you'd like to turn in for the night and I will not keep you any longer," Moldark says with a sense of finality; the contours of his mouth emphasized by dots of red glow. 

Afritan worries his lower lip, a lifetime of insecurities pressing down on his shoulders, and he fakes a smile, tries to keep his voice light and airy when he bids him goodnight. His throat feels closed off, tight.

Before Moldark leaves, Afritan calls out, "You're always welcome t-to eat y-your dinner h-here with me. If y-you want."

Moldark's hemmed into the tent opening by the moonlight. His mouth's slanted into a handsome smile that seems so wholly involuntary, genuine. He nods, turns away, shedding his angular silhouette on the ground, and leaves. 

The flap of the tent makes a soft sound as it slides shut behind him. Afritan is alone with his thoughts. 

Heavy-limbed he clambers upright and begins to undress. It's pitch dark inside his tent now. There's no sound aside from a lonesome owl, the wind whistling through the tall grass. Afritan places the staff he’s been practicing with the past few months next to his sleeping roll as a precaution and curls up under the padded blanket. 

He falls prey to a fitful sleep the second his head hits the pillow, dreaming of leonine eyes flashing in the dark, of strong hands dragging down the expanse of his body.

.

The expedition trundles on for the next couple of days: they dive, excavate, bring artifacts to the shore, reconstruct and refabricate. 

'A treasure trove for anthropologists' the magister calls the ruins. Not that she'd taken much stock of what they found. She spends most time in her tent. Something Afritan finds unusual given her work ethic. But she's right: countless theses about dwarven life could be written from what they've dug up alone. Most of it simple pottery and household items, the lonesome weapon; chipped away and eroded. 

It also lays bare one of steward Gixx' fears however: whatever in the fortress that could've been helpful against the dragons might have long since been looted. 

Afritan grows bored after the first three  _ real _ dives; his position as navigator loses relevance once the excavation sites are propped up with markers and tapes. It's not like the waters are  _ that _ tricky either. 

Instead he joins the Vigil on their rounds or takes guard or offers to help with the cooking and cleaning. Afritan talks to Moldark often in their downtime, likes to think they've become friends. The Vigil crusader must be bored too; the only security his squad has to offer is against ridgeback skales and river drakes after all. 

Across the lake the pirates at Greybeard's Landing remain ominously quiet. 

.

On the fifth night the roar of the cannons booms over the waters. Afritan's eyes shoot open, and he scrambles upright in his sleeping roll, feels around for his staff. Whatever grogginess he should feel dissipates when his fingers bump against the weapon. The tumult outside exacerbates the uneasiness in his stomach. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He slips on his boots and throws the flap of his tent open. The wind's throwing cold, cruel jabs; the hemline of his shirt bunches up around the ridges of his hips. 

At the other side of the bridge, flashes of gunfire and grenades slash through the dark. 

“Tatule, round up the expedition members and do a headcount. I want  _ everyone  _ accounted for! Check back in as soon as you can! Moldark, with me!” 

Afritan hears warmaster Narru yell and snaps his head in the direction he thinks her voice came from: magister Spectremaw’s tent. 

If they’re gunning for a fight Afritan’s determined to help; he clutches his staff tighter and runs over. His eyes well up with tears from the wind. Magister Spectremaw stands at full height, looking around annoyed, as if the imminent attack was nothing more than an unwelcome diversion. Her tail sweeps low over the grass. The Whispers agent's there too, taking to the shadows.

“I didn’t expect those Covington pirates to take notice of the tablet’s disappearance  _ this _ quickly,” Oprez says sheepishly, his tone of voice belying a confession--but it sounds awfully deliberate,  _ played at. _

If Afritan were to guess, he'd wager the Whispers agent didn't agree to holding out on the rest of the team.

“Tablet?  _ What tablet? What's  _ the Whispers agent talking about, magister?!” Warmaster Narru demands, whipping around to point an accusing finger at magister Spectremaw. Her long ears perked like a guard dog's. 

Afritan tries to quell the uneasy feeling pooling down his belly. The sound of a loud splash washes up the shore; a cannonball, sinking.

Magister Spectremaw flicks a paw at the warmaster and mutters irritably, “A firsthand account of how the dwarves forged the Sanguinary Blade, warmaster.  _ That’s  _ what Oprez is talking about.

_ A firsthand account?  _ Afritan blinks slowly, taking in the newfound information. Such an artifact, if true, if  _ real _ , would be invaluable. 

Warmaster Narru narrows her eyes into slivers and asks in a stone cold voice, "And just how long have you been keeping this from us, magister?"

"I wasn't keeping  _ anything _ from  _ anyone _ . I had to verify the tablet's authenticity first…" Magister Spectremaw growls low then, a dangerous sound, and snaps, "We should focus on the task at hand! We can point claws  _ later _ ."

Her tail wags from side to side, agitated; the sleek fur fluffing up. 

Afritan watches the gesture warily; he'd forgotten about the magister's Ash Legion days. Moldark too, seems on edge.

Oprez steps out into the moonlight and holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture; his glow a mellow blue in the moonlight. 

He addresses warmaster Narru directly, "My apologies for all this secrecy. I'm aware this warrants my order no credit, but I hope you understand safekeeping the tablet should be our first priority. We cannot under any circumstances let that drunken rabble succeed and...  _ and barter the tablet away _ ."

" _ Fine! _ We'll take point at the bridge. Those two Lionguard at the other side won't hold them off for much longer," Warmaster Narru acquiesces tiredly, giving a dismissive wave. Her eyes slide over to Magister Spectremaw, distrustful. "Will you be joining us, magister?"

Magister Spectremaw bristles and draws her daggers; her muzzle contorted in a snarl, baring her teeth. The gesture speaks volumes.

"I believe we're all set then," Oprez remarks wryly before unhooking the bo staff from his back and glancing between his uneasy allies. 

They hurry onwards, joined by Tatule who was looking for Afritan to complete his headcount. His rock gazelle nips at their heels, bucking excitedly in the tall grass. The pirates are storming the bridge; the stampede of their heavy footfalls echo through the night like gunfire. 

Slashes of silver moonlight slide off their fast-paced forms. 

Afritan skids to a halt over the gravel and summons a repulsion glyph at the bridgehead to secure the choke point. Some pirates bound headfirst into the magic barrier. They get flung back, tumbling into the tide of their crew. Moldark takes the initiative and  _ pounces _ . He takes to the dark seamlessly. Oprez pole vaults into the rabble next and body-slams a burly charr pirate. 

From then on it's pure chaos: screams, curses, gunshots, energy crackling through the air, a volley of arrows,…

Tatule's rock gazelle kicks another pirate over the stone railing. A few pirates willingly plunge into the water, try swimming to shore. Tatule holds them off. One swashbuckler, a Norn with bright red tattoos across the lower half of her face, takes four arrows to the chest before she falls to her knees. Gasping, grasping at the arrows. 

Magister Spectremaw slits her a smile. Finishes her off with the practised flick of a knife. A spurt of blood on the wet rocks. 

Warmaster Narru tries to coordinate the battle, but noises of all frequencies funnel into the ears, a mash of static,  _ adrenalin. _ Underscored by the lone cannonshot. Afritan focuses on supportive magic, summons sigils that heal and boost speed. Maybe he should've grabbed his sword instead, could've gotten in on some action.

His gaze singles out Moldark, blurred in the crowd. 

Moldark moves with the economy and purpose of an alpine stalker. It's exhilarating to witness. He slams an elbow into a pirate's face, whips around. The blade of his axe bites into a shoulder, a collarbone. Afritan squints to see even better, clutches his staff when Moldark parries a cutlass, pushes the barrel of a pistol out of his way. 

At one point the turrets stop firing, and the pirate crew breaks apart, disperses.

_ Don't let up now _ , the warmaster screams over the battlefield.  _ Keep pushing! _

They manage to chase off the remaining pirates, and a hush falls over the lake. The morning sun rises between the mountains and casts a bloody glow over the rocky shoreline, over the waves. Tatule fondly pets his rock gazelle, then crouches over the Norn pirates corpse, yanks the arrows out while whistling. Magister Spectremaw and warmaster Narru confer at the bridgehead with Oprez mediating between the two. 

Afritan can hear snippets of their quarrel. Accusations, mostly.

From where he's standing, a rocky ledge jutting out above the shoreline, he has a clear view on Moldark rinsing his battle axes clean of blood. He's covered with the stuff. Viscera too, splattered across his chestplate. The sunlight burnishes Moldark's gauntleted hands golden. 

"A-are you hurt?" Afritan calls out to him, needlessly making his presence known. 

Angling his head to look up at him from over his shoulder, Moldark replies calmly, "No, I'm not. What about you?"

Afritan shakes his head. Some thorned tendrils slip loose from his ear and slide over his face. Annoyed, he fusses over them.

"I told you, didn't I?" Moldark says, unprompted, and pushes himself up, hooks his axes back to the iron hinges on his belt. There's that lopsided smile again. At Afritan's confused expression, Moldark continues, "On the day we started. I told you that there would be  _ some _ action. I was right." 

And Moldark even looks tentatively  _ pleased  _ when he says this. Crowned by the pink morning sky. The black color of the thin barbs on his head mellowed out in the light. Afritan's chest grows tight, so very tight. 

_ But this doesn't feel good.  _

Words stammer to a standstill down his throat. Afritan's eyes widen, and suddenly he can't  _ breathe _ , his windpipe's clogged up with something  _ soft _ , and then he's choking. His face flushes a bruised yellow. Moldark scurries up the slippery rocks in alarm, but Afritan forcefully shakes his head, makes a gesture with his hand that either means  _ stay back  _ or  _ it's okay _ . 

Raw sounds turn into nasty coughs. He's outright dry-heaving now. 

Until that  _ something _ sticks to the back of his tongue, and he scrapes his teeth over it, spits it into his hand. Afritan catches his breath, shudders through an exhale. 

" _ O-oh thorns _ ," he exclaims, dazed. Uncaring that Tatule, Oprez and the others come running, that Moldark hovers around him, antsy, out of his element.

There are flower petals in the palm of his hand. Wet from spit, frumpled, white, sad-looking. He hurriedly clenches his hand into a fist, hiding away the evidence. Afritan's eyes slide over to Moldark, and he looks at him like it's the first time, like back in the Grove, seeing him in a wholly different light.

_ Soulmate. _

. 


End file.
